Cocaine Music
by Penelope-Z
Summary: *Warning: slash, drug abuse* The end of the war. Draco doesn't remember. Harry doesn't know. The nightingale won't sing for you. It won't, my love, it won't.


Warning: Rated an R, due to a slash pairing. Please avoid this fic if you are not comfortable with the idea of a same sex romantic pairing. Also there are other unsavory things, like prostitution, drug abuse and bad taste in clothes.  
  
Disclaimer: If the characters were mine they would be in a lot more pain. Alas, they're JKR's  
  
  
  
  
  
Cocaine Music  
  
He had fallen in love once.  
  
*  
  
For two galleons you can do anything you want with him, to him. He kisses on the mouth too.  
  
Draco is not surprised when the distinguished looking elderly gentleman, who has been staring at him for the past hour in the dimness of the bar, finally approaches to whisper 'I want to suck you' in his ear. The old man is gray-haired and wears expensive robes. He has no wife to go home to.  
  
The toilets at the back of the bar are filthy, the walls are moist, scorched in spots and swarming with cryptic messages in ink. The air is heavy with the stench of everyday death.  
  
Draco lets himself fall on one of the toilet seats as the old man kneels between his open thighs, pulling down the zipper of the trousers with his teeth. It takes Draco longer that usual because the man's mouth is too rough against his skin, but he doesn't complain, like a lamb can't go on strike, demanding better conditions of slaughter.  
  
'No.No.No' he finally says and then comes, his hands yanking white-knuckled at the old man's hair, eyes leaking water, the heels of his shoes digging into the floor tiles.  
  
There is a minute or two of silence as the man stands up, carefully dusting his robes while Draco struggles to zip up his trousers. The distinguished looking elderly gentleman stoops over for a kiss while slipping a few galleons in his sweaty palm, and it's only appropriate that the man's tongue feels salty inside Draco's mouth, as if he is sucking on a coin.  
  
'Don't waste them all on drugs' the man says, the tone of a father tutoring an ungrateful son. 'Get something to eat you poor, ugly thing. You look like a bag of chicken bones.' As the door closes behind him Draco has the vague impression that they had met before, in some other, half-forgotten life.  
  
*  
  
He reaches into his pocket. Memories don't matter when Draco can dance, swaying his pale body to the rhythm of cocaine music, while the world beyond the closed door drowns in clinical, chloroform silence.  
  
He has decided to cut down on the white pills, the ones that fall into the mind like hail, melting every though, because they give him migraines and nausea in the mornings. He has started on the pink ones instead, hallucinations that make his heart easy.  
  
As gravity expires he can fly again, skeletal angel with chicken bone wings, soaring up in the skies. His very own skies, that are dark, have always been dark, and will always be darkening, always in the darkness.  
  
It is a dangerous flight the one he has chosen, moving through solid walls of stone, unlocking doors of secret chambers and halls and corridors, climbing up and down endless stairs without his feet ever touching the floor. But more importantly, he can move through solid walls of flesh too, unlocking the doors of the mind of innocents, as they leave their guards down and sink into sleep unprotected.  
  
And what satanic victory of his own, this could be.  
  
But when the hour burns out he crashes down again, holding his pale head under the flow of the toilet sink, as a vulgar reality sinks two sharp teeth into the back of his neck. These days are short and fast like a bullet and he is aging quickly, trading years for seconds.  
  
*  
  
He must have exited the bar through the wrong door because he suddenly finds himself in the Diagon Alley. The sunlight is too cruel, turning absence into presence, forcing him to sink to the ground, huddling himself in a corner. He itches all over and starts scratching, first his wrists, smudged, punctured and razor-scarred, then his calves and finally his scalp, where some of the hair has fallen off, leaving patches of pink and vulnerable skin.  
  
Happy people cross the streets, all seemingly full of purpose and good intentions. Bright eyes, well-nourished cheeks, square shoulders, firm jaws. Miles and miles of expensive fabric wrapped around them, silk and velvet, cotton and wool, high heels and leather boots, satisfaction and indifference.  
  
This is what happens when the evil ones lose the war.  
  
The Goyles are dead, the Crabbes are dead, the Parkinsons are dead, the Zabinis are dead, father is dead, mother is dead, and you can do anything you want with Draco for two galleons only. He is dead also, though in denial.  
  
This is what happens when the good ones win the war.  
  
A pair of these shiny, well-polished, well-nourished shoes stops in front of him and then a voice: 'Draco? Draco Malfoy?' He looks up. A young man in staring at him. He is wearing poison green robes that match the color of his eyes. Not a potential customer, with such expensive shoes and such pretty eyes he can get any girl he wants, he doesn't need a bag of chicken bones in his bed, even though Draco has the lowest prices.  
  
'Draco, it's me' the young man says, voice quivering and then almost breaking with emotion. He pushes his hair away from his forehead. Draco stares at the lighting bolt shaped scar for some time. Apparently that's what the gentleman wants him to do.  
  
'Have we met, Sir?' he asks, shaking his head in confusion.  
  
*  
  
He had fallen in love once. Now he is just falling.  
  
The end 


End file.
